


The Marble Arch

by Flurry_X



Series: Nurmengard Castle Tales [5]
Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Barebacking, Explicit Sexual Content, First Time, Light breathplay, M/M, Post-Movie 2: Fantastic Beasts: The Crimes of Grindelwald, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-22
Updated: 2018-12-22
Packaged: 2019-09-24 22:52:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17109692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flurry_X/pseuds/Flurry_X
Summary: "It made him think of him, of the ornate brooches sometimes perched on the lapel of his jackets; the simple picture of the man choosing such a small and vain accessory made him seem more approachable, like he was human after all, with his wants and needs and little sins.He longed to be one of them sometimes, perched prettily on his chest, a trinket of affection, always close, always with him."----Stand alone one-shotWhere it's Christmas and Credence lets goCredence POV





	The Marble Arch

**Author's Note:**

> Cause I kept thinking of how sad Credence's Christmases in NY must have been, and how cool it would be for him to finally celebrate it at the Castle.  
> There's angst, and sex, and a gift exchange and I listened to Jeff Buckley's Hallelujah over and over as I wrote it, so there you have it.

His smell had changed.  
He noticed it suddenly, one morning as he was getting dressed, the realization flowing through him in stuttering jolts. His skin, his hair, it didn’t smell like it used to before, like damp and dusty floorboards, the smell acid on his tongue, always too intense.  
He had never liked it but he had never thought he would be able to walk far enough from Ma’s house for the scent to peel from his skin. Except that now it had.  
When he nosed at the inside of his own wrist he couldn’t find any of those moldy notes, there was only the earthy, clean, woody smell of the castle. It made him shudder a little, the thought of the castle’s smells seeping into his skin, marking him, making him one of them, belonging.  
He decided he liked that thought, secretly, just a little; liked allowing himself to brush against his new clothes and find hints of _him_ hidden there, warm and secret.  
It ached pungently inside when he let himself smile, a fleeting thought that he liked it best when his skin smelled like _him_ , when they would get close enough that their scents would mix together, rubbing off on each other. It felt sinful, and it felt right.

Stills of their moments together would often rise up in his head, whenever he let his thoughts wander too far, unchecked. It felt so real sometimes he could almost feel the phantom touches still electric on his skin, his senses in alert, his whole body tensing, straining towards something that he could never quite reach.  
He would try to catch himself, his cheeks flushed, his chest tight, remind himself that it was all a sick game they were playing, remind himself he could not let himself fall. Grindelwald was darkness, velvety and soft and deep, and suffocating. If he let his heart fall he knew the darkness would coil around him so tight and he wouldn’t know which way was up, and it would be the end for him.

He was deep into a reminiscence, the forest and the snow, and his hands so hot on his skin, when he heard Queenie’s voice interrupting his thoughts.  
“Which one do you think would look nicer, sweetie?” she asked, her wand swirling around, a line up of colorful Christmas wreaths floating in front of her.  
_“Isn’t she jewish anyway? Why is she doing this”_ he thought to himself instinctively, always too late in remembering she would hear him.  
“Oh I am” she said, her smile unfaltering, “but most people at the castle aren’t, and Mr. Grindelwald has asked me to help with your training today.” she said, her voice full of kindness as usual, so cheerful and bright “and besides, a little bit of decorating never hurt anyone.”  
He scoffed, he had nothing to celebrate, nothing to be grateful for but a long series of cold and lonely Decembers, year after year, joyless and bare. The memory of each one still so vivid in his mind, like he could close his eyes and find himself sunken in knee deep muddy snow, Ma at his side, the twinkling lights of the festivities getting further and further away.  
“Oh sweetie” he heard, and Queenie was standing closer, her hand reaching out to brush against his tight fist, warm and reassuring. He let it happen for just a second, before recoiling, reminding himself there was nobody he could trust in that place.  
She looked disappointed at his reaction, her eyes downcast and sad. And he wondered if she had been ordered to be his friend, if he had told her to befriend him, to keep a close eye, wanting to be inside his head, everywhere.

“Let’s go with the red one then, why don’t you go ahead?” she said, forcing a smile, undoubtedly reading into his thoughts, feeling his distrust.  
“Wingardium leviosa” he whispered, focusing on the lush wreath, making it float all the way up to the big staircase at the centre of the room.  
It looked pretty up there, round and cheerful on the stark lines of the white marble, it made it look less daunting and severe, like it wasn’t just a place of power, but also a home.  
It made him think of _him_ , of the ornate brooches sometimes perched on the lapel of his jackets; the simple picture of the man choosing such a small and vain accessory made him seem more approachable, like he was human after all, with his wants and needs and little sins.  
He longed to be one of them sometimes, perched prettily on his chest, a trinket of affection, always close, always with him. He gulped the thought down as soon as it rose up, careful to keep his feelings for himself, afraid of what would happen if they floated out in the open, unprotected.

“That looks perfect, hon” he heard, sweet and soft, Queenie at his side, smiling like she wasn’t just reading his thoughts, like she didn’t know his secrets.  
“You know, me and Tina, my sister, we always exchanged little gifts for Hanukkah.” she said, her eyes now sad, distant “yeah, we have this little tradition, me and her, you see. We write clues about what we want on a little piece of paper and then we hide them somewhere around the house for the other person to find. I like that game, I always win” she said, and her smile was sad and maybe there were tears in her eyes.  
“So what would you like? You know, for Christmas?” she asked him, clearing her voice, fighting to regain her composure.  
He tried to think about it for a second, the question sounding almost foreign to his ears. He wasn’t used to being allowed to want things. Everything he had ever wanted he had lost, and now he was afraid that the mere exercise of desire on his part would inevitably destroy its object. And yet he knew, deep down inside, there was something he was longing for, and it had his eyes, and his arms, and his breath warm and wet on his lips.  
“I-I.. I don’t know” he stammered, painfully aware of the blush spreading from his face to his chest, trying desperately to board his mind up, conceal his thoughts so that she couldn’t read them.  
“Well there must be something you’d like, there’s always something. Maybe something you couldn’t have, you know, before?” she asked sweetly, trying to be tactful.

A memory suddenly popped in his head, bright and painful, of himself when he was just a little boy, his feet swimming in torn out shoes, a jacket that was too big on him and too thin for the inclement New York winter. A colorful display in a shop window, a toy train, red and sleek and shiny, bright lights making it glow in the dusk, intricate details hand painted on its surface, making it look like it was real, like it was going to start moving in just a second.  
He remembered dropping the flyers he was holding in the snow, his eyes glued to that marvelous picture; he remembered putting his dirty little hands on the clean glass of the window, his eyes full of nothing but the shiny display in front of him, a want so deep his small chest could barely contain it.  
And then he remembered the welts, scorching hot on his hands, on his face, a punishment, for wanting, for looking, for desiring something he wasn’t allowed to have. He felt them on his hands even now, his palms twitching with the shadow of a pain too deep to ever truly fade.  
His heart bled for that boy in front of the window sometimes, for his cold nights, for the shame burning hotly on his face, knowing he would always want, knowing he could never have.

He avoided Queenie’s gaze this time when he felt her moving towards him, undoubtedly reading his thoughts. He didn’t want her pity, didn’t need her compassion.  
“There’s nothing I want” he lied, his eyes glued to the floor, his heart now rattling faster in his chest. “Oh hun.. It’s okay...” she started saying, walking closer, reaching out to touch his shoulder. The touch caught him by surprise, it almost burned through his clothes, strange and unexpected. His shoulder jerked upwards as he took a step back.  
“I said there’s nothing I want!” he yelled, louder, even to his own ears. Fear shot across her wide eyes, just a split second, just enough for him to recognize it. Like she imagined for just a moment that he was going to turn into the obscurus, unleash its power on her. It made him shudder in disgust, knowing that must be what they all saw him as, a weak boy, just a shell of a dangerous and unruly power. He felt foolish then, for ever thinking she would be his friend, again reminded that wanting something only leads to bitter disappointment.  
A familiar unease started crawling up his throat, its many itchy legs going faster and faster, and he needed space, needed not to look at her, needed to hide. He turned his back to her, silent, and started walking towards the big wooden doors of the castle’s entrance.  
“But sweetie, your practice..” he heard her say, feeble, behind him. But he didn’t care, he was tired of it, the pity, the questions, the sad looks. He didn’t want her to spy on him on him, not on his account. Hadn’t he done enough to prove his loyalty? Was he still just a dirty little servant for him? Needing to be watched, needing to be monitored at all times. The thought made his heart stutter in a way that felt like betrayal.  
His mind was spinning with questions and doubts, as he walked through the stables, then the gardens, his feet mindlessly leading him into the thick forest surrounding the building.

He realized he was out of breath when he finally stopped, his breath fogging thickly in the air, the trees observing him with their kind stare. He didn’t want to go back, not yet, the stillness of the nature around him felt more welcoming than the human interactions that awaited him back at the castle.  
“Accio jacket” he said, his wand pointed straight at his bedroom window, hoping he was focusing hard enough to actually perform the spell correctly. His practices proved fruitful when his black velvet jacket, a gift from Grindelwald, one of many, floated neatly into his hand.  
He wrapped it around himself hurriedly, shuddering a little when the smell flooded his senses, foreign and yet familiar, soothing, and he couldn’t help but inhaling deeply, feeling for just a moment like he was being tightly wrapped in the man’s bruising embrace.  
There were a few coins in the pocket and he briefly thought he could use them to buy something at the village, now worried that he was going to be the only one not to offer anything, always different, always less. It made him blush, in the secrecy of his sheltered walk, the thought that he was going to offer the man a gift in return for his many. Knowing he would never be able to repay him in full, to repay him for his very life, his identity.  
He let himself picture Grindelwald opening a present, picture the myrth in his eyes, maybe a smile, just for him. The way his heart sped up at the image should have been enough warning that he was treading dangerous waters, but he couldn’t help himself, recklessness and something that felt like hope blooming slow and gentle in his chest.  
Maybe, just for once, just a little, it would be okay to let himself give into it.

The path to the nearby village was long but gentle, elves keeping it clear of snow in case any of them wished to travel down by foot. He liked going to the village’s market, liked walking through the winding path that led from the castle to the small cluster of little bright houses, so silent and quiet, a spell concealing the sight of the castle from anyone unwanted.  
It was a time for him to feel normal, to be free of the whispers at the castle, to stop watching his back for just a moment, and he liked the mechanical back and forth of legs on the snow, so predictable, so calming.  
The village was fully decorated now, colorful wreaths and shiny lights adorning every window, people happily scurrying around the snowy roads, arms full of food and presents.  
He walked mindlessly, feeling himself calming down, bit by bit, allowing his body to be swept up in the cheery mood, to pretend he too was buying trinkets to share with his loving family.  
There was a small shop at the edge of the village, between the bakery and the cafe, its window bright with lights and filled to the brim with elaborate wooden toys. It made him think of Mercy, her sharp mind, she would have loved those puzzles. He wished he knew how she was, wished she had found someone else to braid her hair and sing her Christmas lullabies, someone to make the day feel less miserable.  
Longing swirled in his gut, deep and fierce, wanting something, someone, anyone, to get close enough so that he could latch on and never let go.

He stood in front of the window for a long while, lost in his thoughts, until his eyes suddenly stopped on a small display of wooden brooches in the corner. His heart jolted in his chest as he imagined Grindelwald wearing them, brushing against them with his fingers, keeping them close to his chest. It made his mouth dry.  
He decided there was no harm in taking a look at them, maybe buying one, thought he could always just keep it to himself instead, knew instantly that he wouldn’t.  
He entered the shop, his palms sweaty and his body thrumming in anticipation; when he came out again his pocket was heavy with a small wrapped gift, so light and yet so meaningful, like a live thing inside his pocket.

The walk back to the castle was more strenuous, as he was now devoid of the nervous energy which had propelled him before, his anger now turned into melancholy, for all the things he never had, and for the ones he had lost.  
It was dark by the time he reached back, his feet aching from walking through the freezing snow, his fingers stiff.  
He blew into his cupped hands, trying to warm himself up, now able to spot the gardens in front of him, when suddenly he heard voices coming from behind a tall row of bushes.  
“The boy stormed off apparently” he heard, followed by a scathing laughter “Oh, it’s all so silly I can barely stand it sometimes” the voice said, and he recognized the french accent, it must have been Vinda “what do you mean?” asked a male voice, deep and unknown.  
He inched closer then, his heart beating fast, trying to be silent, aware they were talking about him.  
“Well, you know, the whole parade they’re doing for this boy. The lessons, the magic, the fancy clothes. It’s all so wasteful, pointless I’d say. Don’t you think?” the man hummed in agreement and Credence now felt his mouth drying up, anger spreading like a wildfire through his insides, silent and destructive.  
“I greatly admire Mr. Grindelwald, there must be a reason if he’s keeping the boy so close” said the man. “What’s the reason people keep pets?” she asked, like she didn’t expect an answer, cunning and seething. They laughed. Credence’s breath caught in his throat.  
“He’s a pet to him, like an ugly kitten he’s somehow amused by.” she kept going “He’s not even a good wizard, have you seen him practice? Pathetic” she said, and the man agreed with a smile. “Why is he still here then? He can’t still be amusing to him” he asked, and Credence could feel himself swimming in and out of his body, the very edges of him already blurring into black smoke, bile rising in his throat, acrid and burning.  
“Well clearly he doesn’t want the boy, he’s useless to his cause. He wants his obscurus, the thing inside him, it’s incredibly powerful, dark magic.” she replied, her voice secretive and dark. “How do you even know all that?” asked the man, surprised and entertained  
“Let’s say that me and Mr. Grindelwald, we’re very… what’s the word? Intimate.” she laughed, sultry and seductive and Credence couldn’t stand it anymore, jealousy and white hot anger spreading through his body like a shock, him succumbing to it, the pain so fierce and almost welcome in his chest.

He heard his own voice breaking out as his body lost its battle with the obscurus, as he moved closer and closer to the pair, a violent dark cloud, like a shock on the pristine white snow of the gardens. Their eyes widened in fear as they watched him approach, as they tried to repel him backwards with a spell. But it was useless. He felt it go through him, his immaterial body, as he charged forward, blinded by his rage, wanting to hit them, wanting to show them his power, needing, desperately, to prove them wrong. The impact with both their bodies was strong enough to launch them back, knocking them out on the ground. He hesitated then, hovering above them, the obscurus hungry for revenge, wanting to snap their fragile little bodies in half, wanting to hurt, slice, tear their flesh apart.  
He forced it all down, the hatred, the rage, wanting to keep his power for the true object of his anger. Grindelwald. The pain lurched into him, through him, crackling and zapping through his exposed nerves, and it was almost unbearable. He was being made a fool of, again. He was being used, again. He was worthless, again, always.  
The hope, the warmth he had been feeling just hours earlier was now a raging fire, burning through his chest, rising in his throat, in his eyes, blind and scorching and shameful. He should have known better.  
It felt like a thousand blades slicing through his skin, slow and deep and ragged, burning red inside his eyelids, pulsating inside his skull, the feeling so much worse now, now that he had let himself trust, just a little; now that he was letting himself fall. But there would be no one to catch him, and he shouldn’t have been surprised.

The obscurus wanted revenge, and he did too, thick and musky on his tongue, as he hovered fast around the castle, silent, unseen in the darkness, until he found Grindelwald’s window.  
He lurched in, through the glass, shattering the window on the marble floors loudly, hurtling himself through the shards, regaining his human form as he moved closer and closer to his bed, wanting him to see his eyes, wanting him to know who was truly in front of him.  
His chest was heaving by the time he reached the bed, his wand extended, gripped so painfully in his hand that he thought it might snap. He pointed it at the man’s neck, as he looked up at him, still startled by the sound, confused.  
“Not. Worthless.” he gasped through his gritted teeth, and every syllable was a monstrous effort, it dragged thickly on his tongue, like mud. He could hear the tears wetting his voice already, stupid, foolish, childish.  
His wand was pushing against the man’s throat, and it looked painful, the skin stretched and red. But he didn’t react. He didn’t reach for his own wand. Staring at him instead, his eyes unwavering and still, fixated on him.  
“I’m not a pet” he growled again, and it sounded like it had come straight from his stomach, and up his throat, like a sickness. “I could kill you.” he whispered, broken and cold and now his tears were clouding his eyes and his head was pounding and he realized he didn’t know what he was doing there.  
“I know” Grindelwald replied suddenly, and it came as such a shock to his ears that he almost lost his grip on the wand. His voice was calm and soothing, he could feel his heartbeat, drumming steady on his neck. “My boy” he whispered, sweetly, and it sounded so sincere, it deflated him, blowing his anger out like a cold wind, like it had never been there in the first place. A sob broke from his lips, echoing through his chest, as his whole body shook violently, not knowing what he should do, wanting to believe him so desperately, drink his words down like a parched man, and wanting to get revenge, carving into his lying mouth and hurting him back, finally.

The struggle almost felt unbearable for his body to withstand, and he let it happen when Grindelwald sat up slowly, steady, reaching out with his hand to grab at his arm. He let his body fall when he tugged him onto the mattress, flipping him on his back swiftly, kneeling above him, his legs framing his waist.  
It felt like his chest was empty now, a swirling drain of emotions going down and down and disappearing into nothingness. He didn’t care what happened to him, didn’t care if he got punished, didn’t care if he died or he lived.  
He stared at him from below, his chest raising and falling, frantic, tears sliding from his eyes and onto the covers. And he didn’t care. Felt the edges of his vision starting to go fuzzy, unfocused, as he started sinking into himself, where it was dark and safe.

It was his lips that brought him back. A sudden and unexpected contact, hot and heavy and wet. His hands clawing at his face, the back of his neck, his nose slotting next to his own, and his mouth, _his mouth_. Open and wet and demanding, pushing against his lips, the feeling so foreign and so welcome, filling him like a thick sweet honey, satisfying a need he never even knew was there. He felt his vision sharpen again as Grindelwald worked his lips open, every sense heightened like it had never been before, like he wanted more and more of it, like he never wanted it to end, regardless of what it meant.  
He let his mouth fall open, a whimper escaping the gate of his lips, letting himself be taken, letting the man’s tongue inside, warm, and strong and slick against his. He could taste his smell now, more intensely than ever before, leather and wood and fire and pepper, thick on his tongue, in his mouth. He responded, his body taken over by raw instinct, tenderness and want blooming through his veins, breaking him open from the inside out, like he was shattering in a million pieces, over and over, like Grindelwald’s hands were the only thing holding him together, and he would have floated out the window otherwise, floating empty in the wind.

The moment seemed to drag on and on, slow and heavy, as he let himself sink into the kiss, the taste of him, so unique, so addictive. His smell, earthy and peppery, and all around him. His hands, in his hair, undoing his clothes, no permissions asked, no explanations given, and he liked it that way. Liked laying there, splayed on the bed, defenseless, an offering waiting to be taken.  
His moans were crawling out his mouth and straight into Grindelwald’s, louder and needier the more clothes he lost. He barely noticed when they were both completely unclothed, their mouths the only pinpoint of his attention, his head pounding painfully, overwhelmed.  
“My boy” Grindelwald whispered against his lips, wet and swollen “you, you are everything.” he said, his voice coarse and so raspy it felt like it was scraping his skin, his words so bare, so truthful, that he couldn’t help but grabbing onto them, like they were a boat and he was a drowning man.

When he kissed him again it was aggressive, relentless, like he wanted to own every inch of his skin, his body, his soul. Their bodies slammed together, naked, raw, electric current sparkling between them, sparks every time they brushed against each other. It was exhilarating and painful at the same time, his hands like hot wax melting on his skin, prickling and soothing. On his chest, in his hair, between his legs, inside him. Moving rhythmically, back and forth, stretching, and filling and strange, a sensation he had never felt before, that he had never even dared imagined existed. He wrapped himself up in the pain and the pleasure, like tentacles crawling around him, damp and hot on his skin, a prison of sensations too powerful to resist.  
His senses overwhelmed in a way that felt unbearable and just right at the same time, like he was meant to be there, sprawled open on his bed, his fingers stretching him wide, his mouth wet and hot on his jaw, on his neck, on his chest, biting and marking and painful and delicious.  
It wasn’t a surprise when he felt Grindelwald spread his legs even wider, stepping between them and then pushing inside, thick and unyielding, forcing himself deeper and deeper, stretching his body beyond what he thought was possible.  
He felt so good inside, filling him up, like he was making room for himself inside his body, carving him from the inside out for his own pleasure. He didn’t mind.  
He kept sinking, deeper and deeper, an abandonment so absolute and so reckless that it almost felt like death; like there wouldn’t be anything past this, no daylight, no life past their bodies joining together, straining and melting and crashing into each other. His legs spread, wrapped around Grindelwald’s waist, clumsy and frantic, pushing him against his body, deeper inside, again and again. His hips rutting against the bare skin on his stomach, warm and soft, a pleasure so sweet he couldn’t help but wanting more. His arms splayed out, hands gripping the covers, spasming with the waves of pleasure and pain ricocheting through him, again and again and again, as he moved faster inside him, deeper, brushing a spot inside him that knocked every breath straight out of his lungs.

“You’re mine” Grindelwald growled against his lips suddenly, biting his jaw, his chest, a hand sneaking up to grab at his throat, tight, so tight, his pulse pushing relentless against it, his lungs struggling to take enough air in. He felt himself solid then, his every edge, his every corner, his body, hid mind, his soul, they all belonged to the man in front of him, and he was powerless to fight it.  
He felt his back arch against him, his hips pushing and pulling and straining and taking him inside, his hand still on his throat, his lips on his own, his tongue searching and finding his, always, as he came with a crashing wave of exploding brightness.  
Gasping and breathing but there wasn’t enough air, moving and straining but there was nowhere to go, trapped between his chest and his hotness buried deeply inside him. He fell, deeper than he ever had before, his whole body feeling more than it ever had before, and Grindelwald was there to catch him, folding his body up inside his, pushing against him, sweaty and warm and frantic, holding him down as he emptied himself inside, wet and hot and thick and it felt so right and he never wanted to leave.

His head felt empty and buzzing, as sleep pushed his eyelids down, heavy and warm and inescapable. He felt safe, his body being handled so gently, tender, being cleaned, being wrapped up in the luscious blankets, scooped up in his embrace, tight and stifling and just right.  
Letting himself be held, drifting off, his nose buried in the man’s chest, was the easiest thing he ever had to do.

When he woke up, his eyes dry and swollen, his head pounding, he immediately sensed that Grindelwald wasn't by his side anymore, the warmth and the heaviness gone. He turned to see that his pillow now had a tiny note and a package instead, wrapped carefully in golden paper, nestled inside the deep indentation his head had left on the pillow.  
He reached for the note first, his arm trembling; there was a single line of elegant scrawl inside, _“My boy, I have no love left to give, but if I did, it would be for you. Merry Christmas.”_ It said, simply. And the words opened a hole in his chest, where it was empty and cold, and then filled it up with a bright warmth, so intense it almost felt scolding. It rose through his chest, drying up his throat, into his cheeks, up to his eyes. They prickled now, hot tears pressing from between his eyelashes.  
Tears of longing and tears of acceptance, like his love, his fate was melting slowly over his face, wet and salty. He knew then, with unwavering certainty, he would never find refuge from this man, he inhabited him now, he owned every breath he took, every tear he cried.  
Maybe that's what being loved feels like, he thought, like being chased, and wanting to sprint and wanting to be caught, by him, just him.  
It ached inside him, a pressure almost tangible on his chest, squeezing the air out of him, that he had tangled his life with this man, and now there was no turning back, not for him. Like a blessing, spreading through his soul, warm and prickly, that he wasn’t alone anymore, and like a curse, that he hungered for him, his touch, his love, and he would never be satiated.

He dried his eyes, feeling foolish, feeling lost, trying to breathe through the sudden awareness enveloping him, and he remembered to glance at the envelope on the pillow.  
It was a weird shape, wrapped in golden paper, like it had been done in haste. He peeled the paper away slowly, his breath catching a little in his lungs, until he revealed a bright red small toy train. A long chain of small hand painted carriages, the detail so intricate and careful it almost seemed loving.  
He clutched it in his trembling hands, now weeping for the boy he had lost along the way, the boy who was never found, weeped for himself, falling deeper and deeper, wanting to believe he was finally home.

The train was still clutched in his hands, against his bare chest, when Grindelwald stepped back into the room, his hair still damp, his shirt half unbuttoned.  
He didn’t say anything, he just walked closer, to the side of the bed, and Credence couldn’t meet his eyes. He felt his hand on his shoulder, and his skin hummed softly at the touch, wanting to lean into it, a muscle memory of the insatiable longing he had for this man.  
“Queenie mentioned you might like that.” he uttered finally, his fingers still grazing Credence’s skin, skimming lightly into his hair, like it didn’t matter, and Credence had to bite on his lip to suppress a shiver.  
He nodded instead, his eyes still wet, his heart thundering in his chest, not knowing what to do, how to move through the aftermath of what they had done the night before.  
It was silent when Grindelwald’s fingers brushed lightly under his chin, forcing his face up, opening his gaze. He didn’t fight it.  
“You’re safe here, boy.” he said, and his face was so close he could feel the wetness of his hair grazing against his forehead, and he looked honest, for once, a flicker of truth, just a glance under the thick mask of control he usually wore. The way his fingers gripped his neck, so tight, like he needed Credence to believe him, the way he wouldn’t let his eyes break contact, as he inched closer and closer, like he couldn’t help himself, like he was drawn to Credence as much as he was drawn to him.  
It wasn’t a surprise now when he felt his lips warm on his own, tender and brief and almost tentative, like he was afraid Credence would pull back. He wouldn’t. Not ever.  
Grindelwald’s breath stuttered a little when they parted again, and he thought for just a moment he could see a veil of wetness in eyes.

“Clean up and get dressed. We’re celebrating downstairs.” he said, clearing his throat, like he was catching himself, already turning around and hiding his face.  
It was a shock to them both when Credence’s hand reached out and grabbed his wrist. “Wait” he stammered, his throat dry and his ears ringing. Grindelwald obeyed, intrigued and surprised.  
“My jacket, I-.. There’s something in my jacket” he croaked out, pointing at the garment discarded on the floor, wanting to reach out but not wanting to expose his naked body.  
Grindelwald seemed to understand and he handed it to him, wordlessly.  
He reached into the pocket, his fingers trembling so much it was hard to get a grip on the small packet, almost unable to believe he was doing this.  
“It’s not much, but..” he said “I just thought it looked nice” he whispered, handing him the gift, feeling foolish but feeling hopeful, wanting to give in so badly his skin itched with the intensity of it.  
He kept his eyes on the covers as he heard the wizard unwrapping the package, couldn’t bring himself to look up until he heard a soft gasp, and an exhale, long and hard and deep, it sounded poignant, even painful.  
His eyes landed on Grindelwald, his hands brushing reverently over the intricate details of the wooden brooch, like it was a precious thing.  
“A phoenix” he heard him whisper, like he was revealing a secret, it made him blush in embarrassment and hope. He was still trying to find the words when he felt him moving towards the mirror, stretching the material of his still unbuttoned shirt, and carefully threading the brooch through, patting it over his chest. The words died right in his throat.  
Grindelwald looked at him, a long pause, still and unflinching in the warm morning light; it looked like he was pondering something, his lips curled up around words he wasn’t saying.  
He nodded eventually, breaking eye contact. “Thank you” he grunted softly, his hands busy with the buttons on his shirt, then his jacket.  
Relief swelled up inside him, warm and merciful and bittersweet, aching softly in his chest, a sensation he knew he was going to be very familiar with, as he watched him get ready, his clothes pulled impeccably over his body, like nothing could get to him now.  
He revelled in the sight for a moment, feeling like he should cherish this moment in his memory forever, warm and unguarded and intimate.  
“I’ll be waiting for you” Grindelwald said as a parting, already walking out the door.

Credence took his time getting ready, letting his body stretch through the aches of the night before, his breath stuttering whenever his fingers grazed a bruise on his neck, or his chest. It made him feel grounded, like he knew where he belonged.  
When he put new clothes on, soft silk and thick velvet, deep burgundy and forest green, he couldn’t help but thinking he didn’t just smell like his castle, he smelled like _him_ , all over, and it felt so right it made his heart ache.  
He brought the little train to his own room before going downstairs, the sight of it, bright and shiny on his desk, his first real gift, just for him, melting something tight inside him.  
He still had a smile on his lips when he entered the ballroom, decorated brightly in garlands and wreaths and twinkling lights, a big tree standing tall at the corner, covered in ornaments, a semicircle of chairs and sofas pulled messily around the fireplace.  
His eyes found Grindelwald immediately, his whole body pulled towards him like there was an invisible string always tangled in the space between them. He was sitting in the biggest armchair at the center of the room, his body casually folded there, a glass clutched in his left hand, as he spoke, deep and sure, and everybody was listening. He stopped when he caught sight of Credence, his eyes turning gentle for just a moment, before gesturing him over, to a big cushion sitting on the ground at his right. Everybody in the room stared as he walked over, feeling a flush spread on the back of his neck, deciding not to care.  
He sat himself down at Grindelwald’s feet, his back resting on the armchair, closer than anyone else, right by his side. It felt peaceful then, even with the stares, even with the judgment and the envy. The room was warm and bright and Queenie would smile softly at him from across the room sometimes, as they all listened to Grindelwald’s passionate speech, his words making him want to stand up and rally up beside him, making the world right, giving all he had to make his vision come true.

He took a sip of mulled wine and rested against the armchair behind him, feeling Grindelwald’s body twist and shift as he spoke, feeling his fingers brush feather light on his head every now and then, so briefly that he could have thought it was a mistake, but he knew better.  
He closed his eyes and let the warmth of the fire and the wine lull him into relaxation, awareness now sitting heavy on his chest, warm and tight, that he was home, and home was nestled at his feet, next to him, smelling like pine and wet soil and burning wood.  
Whatever battles were to come, he knew where he belonged.

**Author's Note:**

> I actually tried really hard on this and I truly hope that the result is worth the effort and people will enjoy it.  
> I stretched the characters a little further than it goes in the movies but I tried to stay true to their core and I hope their actions and behaviors still make sense.  
> I guess this is my contribution to the Grindelbone fandom for this Christmas, I really hope you enjoyed it, and if you did PLEASE do leave a comment and let me know, it'll be the best gift possible, for real.  
> Happy Holidays folks! =)
> 
> (Sorry I always make Rosier the bad one, but I'm Italian, and beefing with the French is in my DNA, apologies to anyone who likes her!)  
> ((Also, I know Queenie is Jewish and I tried to address that best as I could, the "tradition" she mentions is just something personal she has with Tina, my own personal headcanon and I hope I'm not offending anyone with it. If I am please correct me and let me know!))


End file.
